


Sleeping at the Edge

by theabbeygrange



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 03:14:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6103002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theabbeygrange/pseuds/theabbeygrange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kairos (καιρός)</p><p>(n.) The perfect, delicate, crucial moment;<br/>the fleeting rightness of time and place<br/>that creates the opportune atmosphere for<br/>action, words, or movement; also, weather.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleeping at the Edge

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a little bit in love with Let It Go by James Bay, the song that inspired this piece. But because I'm absolute pants at writing ambiguous or unhappy endings, this was the final result.

This is how it starts.

He doesn't remember when, exactly, it happened. It was maybe their first year at uni, he thinks, after his father had died and Merlin's mum had been diagnosed with cancer. He doesn't remember, not really, because that year was one long sleepless night where they were chased by their own demons and haunted by what was, could have been, should have been, wasn't. He doesn't think either one of them slept a full night that year, but he remembers daydreaming about sleep. Remembers thinking that even if he did manage to close his eyes, he wouldn't be allowed to rest; his subconscious would simply dream up new horrors that left him gasping, terrified, alone. As though it believed that what he had been through, those he had already lost, hadn't been enough.

But there was one night where rain cascaded down the windows and they had nowhere to be. They were on the sofa, warmed by the orange-blue flames dancing in the fireplace, watching the storm rage outside. He doesn't remember what led them to fumble their way from the couch to his bedroom. But he wants to.

The next morning they got up, made breakfast, and went to class as if nothing had happened.

He wants to know what they'd said or done to turn one simple conversation into pounding pulses and breathless moans, as if remembering would somehow explain what they'd become. What they still are, years later.

It's been years, and they've been sleeping together off and on (mostly off, Arthur thinks). Sometimes he tries to figure out why. But most of the time, he doesn't. It's been years of falling together and apart, like a cliffhanger ending in a long series. Will they, won't they, yes, maybe. It's an odd sort of gravitational pull where they always find their way back to each other, to bed, to twisted sheets and the duvet on the floor. To slick skin and pounding hearts and heated whispers ghosting his ear, filthy things that he never thought he'd hear come out of Merlin's mouth. He had fantasised about them like this before, only they'd whispered about love and forever and always. But the reality is "fuck" and "harder" and "yes."

It's been years and he wonders if anyone else knows it. What they might think. He doesn't particularly care, but he wonders. Maybe someone would notice if, when they were on, they were sickeningly in love like Gwen and Lance, or if, when they were off, they were cold and distant like Morgana and Gwaine. But they aren't either of those things before, during, or after, ever, so no one notices.

Sometimes he wishes that someone would.

This is how it happens.

He doesn't know what triggers it, what causes them to shift from best friends to lovers. It's like trying to catch the exact moment you fall asleep, Arthur thinks; it's only later on that you realise you've been studying the way the moonlight perfectly lights the contours of their cheekbones and listening to the cadence of their breath for minutes. What he does know (which isn't much) is that the shift is inevitable, it will always tip them right into bed, and he's powerless to stop it from happening.

He doesn't really want to.

Merlin is an eternal beginning, the Big Bang that starts and stops the cycle of their relationship. He's the gravitational pull and if Arthur could, if he could let himself fall, he knows that he wouldn't stop before the next bang. With Merlin, no matter how badly it ends, it always begins again. An addiction he can't shake. A habit.

It isn't an addiction of dark skin and lavender scented curls like Arthur had thought it would be, once upon a time.

Instead, it's a habit with sweat on pale skin and impossibly long legs that wrap around him and strong arms that hold on so tightly he thinks they could maybe just meld together. It's an addiction that drives him crazy, does his head in, makes him lose the plot completely. A habit that's wet, tight, hot, so hot that it heats the words that slip past bitten and swollen lips and sometimes he thinks the blaze will consume him.

If that's the case, he thinks, then let him burn.

This is how it ends.

More off than on, Arthur thinks, and sometimes he tries to figure out why. But most of the time, he doesn't. But this time will be different, he's decided. Because it's important. Because he wants to put words to questions that he doesn't really know how to ask and he wants answers that maybe he's not ready to hear. He's going to be there at the start of the next bang and he's going to let himself fall and find out what forever feels like.

Except it's like all the other times where he's missed the exact moment, doesn't know what triggered it, what he said or Merlin said, what happened, but he feels the shift of it.

He's sitting beside Merlin at another one of Morgana's bonfires, watching their friends laugh and talk and pour more wine, but he's not listening to any of the chatter. He's watching and smiling and nodding in all the right places, but every single one of his senses is on fire and his entire world has narrowed down to Merlin's hand on his thigh. Merlin's hand that is slowly creeping upward, fingers brushing the inseam of Arthur's new trousers. But he wants to get his answers and he knows that if Merlin's hand gets any higher, there will be no words, only sighs and moans. So he takes another sip of wine and presses his legs together and smiles at Leon with Merlin's hand trapped between his thighs. He can see Merlin prop his elbow on the table and rest his chin on his hand, using his fingers to muffle his laugh. Arthur presses his thighs tighter.

It doesn't take very long before he feels Merlin's fingers flex, the tips once again finding the inseam. Convenient, Arthur thinks Merlin would say. He can feel those fingers trail, agonisingly slowly, along that traitorous seam.

Arthur glances over at him, and he's happily chattering away with Gwen and not looking at all like he's attempting to grope Arthur under the table. He doesn't even look affected by Arthur's grip, even when Arthur's thighs start to shake under the strain of it. He thinks that this, Merlin's hand trapped between his thighs, is a horrible metaphor for their relationship and all he really wants to do is let those magic fingers, magic hands, free to wander.

"Arthur," Leon looks concerned. "Alright, mate?"

It's as though he's sounded some sort of alarm, because everyone turns to look at them and Arthur feels like he's in secondary school and he's loudly bullying Merlin by asking if he knows how to walk on his knees. Only this time, they aren't thirteen and Merlin isn't throwing any punches, but, Arthur knows, Merlin could still take him apart with less than one blow.

He resists the urge to squirm in his seat. "I'm fine," he tells them, and smiles (though he's sure it was more of a grimace).

"He's right, Arthur," Merlin interjects smoothly. "You do look a bit flushed."

"I'm fine," he repeats, stressing the words. "Really."

Merlin raises a brow and says, "If you're sure."

Arthur clenches his thighs as tightly as he can. "I'm sure."

Merlin winks at him and says, "Okay," right as his searching fingers find what they were looking for.

Arthur inhales sharply and stands up so abruptly that his chair topples to the ground behind him. "Actually," he says, avoiding wide eyes that belong to stunned faces. "I just remembered something - for work, so. Merlin," he grabs the hand with its infernal questing fingers and pulls. "I need to talk to you."

He abruptly turns around and marches Merlin through the back patio and into the house, hearing Elena's faint, "I didn't think they worked together," and Gwaine's laughing reply of, "They don't." He ignores them and steers Merlin up the stairs and through the first door he sees, which just so happens to be Morgana's bedroom. Morgana's bedroom with its amazing views and equally amazing bed that Arthur studiously ignores by turning around and locking the door behind him.

It happens before he's even turned around; hands sliding down his sides and grasping his hips, the heat of Merlin's chest against his back. "I like your new jeans," Merlin whispers and trades Arthur's hips for his thighs, his deft fingers tracing the raised inseam once more. "Convenient."

Arthur can hardly remember his own name, let alone why he was so determined to talk before, so the only thing that comes out of his mouth when Merlin undoes his fly is a moan. Merlin turns him around and presses him against the door with a searing kiss. It's in the space between that kiss and Arthur's next breath that Merlin hits his knees and takes Arthur into his mouth. Arthur's legs buckle and he's dangerously close to joining Merlin on the floor, but Merlin's hands on his hips ground him when gravity won't.

He remembers that first time during their sleepless year, when sex was more of an exploratory mission with tentative strokes and shy moans. But now they've been doing this for years and they're anything but shy, but Arthur still bites his fist to to keep from begging because the hot and the wet and Merlin's tongue tracing that vein and he's humming and those vibrations are making their way up Arthur's spine.

They've been doing this for years and still, when he looks down, the image of teasing eyes and spit-slick lips and his cock disappearing between them still pushes him over the edge. He comes with a stifled moan and slowly slides to the floor. When Merlin kisses him, he can taste himself, and he's already hard again. He's too old for this, he thinks, but the refractory period has always been short when it comes to Merlin. Arthur gets one taste of him and it'll never be enough. It'll never be enough no matter how many times it begins and ends. It'll never be enough, and maybe that's why it will always begin again.

It'll never be enough, but it might have to be enough for tonight, Arthur thinks several hours later when he's sprawled across his own bed. He's lying on his stomach on top of the duvet with his head propped on one arm as he watches the snow fall outside. He can hear the shower running in the background; Merlin had extricated himself from the twisted sheets and whined about cum drying in his hair. Arthur considers joining him since he's feeling pretty gruesome himself, but he barely has the energy to breathe, much less move.

But then the mattress dips and Merlin's climbing on top of him. He almost makes a noise of protest but stops short when Merlin simply lays down; he's not ready for another go either. His warm, damp weight feels nice on Arthur's back, his toes tickling the arches of Arthur's feet, his head cradled in the curve of Arthur's neck. They lay there for several minutes, Merlin's fingers drawing shapes on Arthur's hip while they watch the snow.

Arthur thinks this is really nice, very cosy, something that he could probably (definitely) get used to. And then, before his brain can even process what he's doing, he's spoken.

"This is nice."

Merlin makes a sound halfway between a laugh and what Arthur swears could be classified as a purr. "It is."

"This could be nice all the time."

And he knows with bone deep certainty that with that one seemingly inconsequential sentence, he's changed everything. He'd held out his hand and waited but Merlin never grabbed ahold, so Arthur had to do it on his own. He's in free fall and now he wonders if Merlin will still be holding his hand on impact or if the fall will last forever.

Seven words is all it takes, and they hang in the air between them before he feels Merlin tense up. His fingers still and his breath catches. Arthur can feel his own body go rigid in response, a defence mechanism that overrides his will to simply wait for an answer. The moment seems to expand in the silence, things remembered and moments better off forgotten unfolding before them. It's their entire past right there, the weight they've been carrying on their shoulders, the giant pink elephant that they've been having tea with for eight years.

But that moment was really only a second, because Merlin is quickly rolling off of Arthur's back and onto his own with a plaintive, "Arthur..."

Arthur rolls to face him, but refuses to untangle their feet because it gives him some sort of hope. "What?" He's said it out loud, there's no need to dance around it, and he can ask that damn elephant if it prefers Yorkshire or Clipper. He thinks that maybe he never said the words before because there's so much riding on it. It's everything, all of it, right here in his bed. It's everything, and it could so easily be nothing at all. "It would be."

Merlin's lying there with one arm thrown over his eyes, like he's trying to block out the bright light shining through the frosted window, except it's not all that bright, so maybe he's shielding himself from this conversation. Silence stretches out between them again, and once again, Merlin's the one who breaks it. "What do you want me to say, Arthur?" He doesn't sound happy; he sounds resigned. But he hasn't run out the door yet and their feet are still touching, and that's something.

Nice try, Arthur thinks, and lifts himself up on his elbows, but drops his head so that it touches the mattress again. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, thinking that if he had the strength to start this, he can continue to carry it. He raises his head.

"First," he says, and runs his fingers down the arm that's loose by Merlin's side. "I want you to look at me," he tangles their fingers together and there's no shying away or guarded tensing, so maybe Merlin wants to have this conversation too. Or maybe he knows Arthur too well, knows that he's stubborn and determined and rarely backs down from a challenge.

Merlin lowers his arm and tightens his grip with his eyes still closed. His chest rises and falls as he takes a deep breath and exhales. He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling for a moment before turning to look at Arthur with bright blue eyes. Eight years of will they, won't they, yes, maybe, and that's all it takes, that look in his eyes.

Bang, Arthur thinks.

"I'd been thinking before, about you, and how you're a sort of habit. That we're this odd addiction that I can't control, or even want to, and I'd always come back to," he says. Merlin doesn't say anything, doesn't move. He simply stares. "But something changed, years ago, and watching you walk away in the morning became... difficult."

"You've walked out my door too," Merlin interjects quietly, and it isn't an accusation or defence of any kind. It isn't anything that Arthur can recognise and hold onto.

He nods and drops his head to the mattress again. "I know, but it's different. I-" except it isn't different, not really, and he knows that he settled for this too, that the fault lie equally in the small space between them. He nods and lifts his head, meets those clear blue eyes again. "You're right. It's... It got harder each time, for me, and whenever I wanted to say something, to tell you, I'd just think that you're a sort of eternal beginning." Merlin's eyes widen and his grip on Arthur's hand tightens, but still, he remains quiet. "And it's romantic, the idea of it, isn't it? That no matter what happened or how it ended or how badly, we'd always end up right back here." He shakes his head and remembers to breathe. He swallows and says, "But then I realised that the reason it always begins again, after, is because it never actually started. We've never let it." He's terrified because Merlin is it, all of it, his greatest fear and greatest wish. "So, I can't, Merlin, I can't keep doing this. And I'm scared, because if this is it, all I get then..." He shrugs. "I can't. I want more and I want it to work. I want there to be a real us that stays up and wakes up and no one leaves in the morning."

"Arthur Pendragon," Merlin smiles and Arthur's heart stutters in his chest. "Are you asking me out?"

It's everything, right here in his bed, and he wants all of it, and so he thinks _yes_ and _no_ because he's asking for more than a date. "I'm asking for you," he says, and means it with everything.

And Merlin leans forward and kisses him, but it's different. It isn't wet and hot, but it's a kiss that answers, that promises, that tastes like everything Arthur's ever wanted. It's short but sweet, and they pull back, noses brushing. "I'm in love with you," Merlin says.

 _Bang_.

It's the beginning of something with no end, Arthur knows. He can't think of anything to say, no words that could adequately convey what he's feeling. They're so close and Merlin's eyes are all he sees, they take over his entire world and he knows he'll never want to look away. Arthur has no words, so he kisses him instead.

This kiss is not sweet. It's open-mouthed and wet, hot, so hot and when Arthur reaches for Merlin he's already there, like gravity. So hot, and he thinks he may burn, but it's slow this time, like its never been before, and Arthur feels it on his skin, in his chest, encompassing his heart. But Merlin's eyes are blue and looking at them cools the heat like ice never could. He looks into them and thinks of beginnings, and how he was so scared of the beginning of this night, this conversation, this love. This is a new one, the best one, the most important. It's the first of many nights where they'll say things like "fuck" and "harder" and "yes," but also whisper about love, forever, and always. It's the start of days where Arthur's suits take up all the space in the closet and Merlin tosses his close about their flat in protest and they fight over the washing up.

This is their beginning, Arthur thinks, and smiles.

This how it happens every day.

They've been together for years and still wake up to twisted sheets and the duvet on the floor. It's less frantic now than it was at the very start, when they were desperate for the things they knew they wouldn't have in the morning, but it's still wet, hot, so hot too. It's been years of mornings where they almost always walk out the door together. Merlin's clothes are everywhere, his underwear on the radiator, because Arthur's suits have taken over the closet.

It's been years and falling for Merlin is one of the hardest things that Arthur's ever let himself do. They have tea alone now, and heated debates about hard water blends versus gold. And when their friends ask for a date, they just smile and finger the discreet silver bands on their ring fingers. Arthur's sure that only Gwaine and Lance have caught on, but they'd never say it out loud unless Merlin allowed it. Parallels are funny things, and Arthur muses that the very first time started with them intertwined on the couch watching the rain and how, this time, it started with them intertwined on the bed watching the snow. They'll tell them someday, but not right now. Right now, this beginning is theirs alone.

It's been three years since this beginning, eleven from the very start, but Arthur doesn't think those count. So, they've been together for three years and every night, when he's deep inside of Merlin, he thinks three more, please. And three after that. And three more until forever.


End file.
